


once upon a time

by niloofar



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: (No Actual Sex), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Happy Ending, Lucifer the Voidwing, M/M, Mention of an OC (no actual appearance), Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, because they deserve it, the granscypher has two captains and thats just how it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 16:44:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niloofar/pseuds/niloofar
Summary: Lucifer, Sandalphon, and centuries of life told through fairy tales. Not all stories come with a happy ending, but this once, it may not end so tragically, like every other chapter of their life.





	once upon a time

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this way before "a reward, of sorts" but irl (mostly uni) work and depression got in the way and i reached the point of wanting to eat my fist every time i opened the docs page. but at last, i prevailed.

 

 

 

> _i. Alice in Wonderland_

 

The sight of Lucifer’s eyes is his very first memory.

He remembers the way their blue stood out in the sheer whiteness of everything else in his vision. Lucifer’s eyes are a shade darker than the sky on sunny days, and brighter than when there are rain clouds above. He can remember the first part of himself that he saw, a hand that looked frail, reaching out weakly to touch the face of its creator with all the wonder of a newborn babe. Lucifer had taken it in his own palm, and Sandalphon memorised the shape of that touch right in that moment, a memory engraved into his skin. The coldness of leather contrasting with warm, warm skin, a grip that was steady yet gentle, careful not to harm.

Later, he learns that Lucifer holds all that he has in the same manner. A kind hold that only ever tightens when it wants to protect.

He learns of Lucifer this way, and learns _from_ him. He watches with with an attention that is borderline distasteful, all of Lucifer’s movements, from the first moment he steps past the gates of the garden until the last. If Lucifer notices how strongly intense his gaze becomes at times, he never comments on it. Sometimes, Sandalphon wishes he does, just so he would know what disapproval looks like in those ever serene features.

Other times, he wants to ask Lucifer if he would like to meet elsewhere, go for a walk in the long hallways with its ornate pillars the only listeners to their conversations. Lucifer is happy in the gardens though, a lightness to his posture that Sandalphon never sees when he spies on him having conversations with the other archangels, or even that Astral researcher he calls his friend. Skulking behind walls and grand gates, he’s learned how to hide even the soft clicking of his steps, just to have a look at how Lucifer is outside of their shared time sitting in that patio. He dares to find a bit of pride in himself, knowing he can appeal to the Supreme Primarch this way, can put him at ease like no other.

Sandalphon thinks he would be more proud of himself still, if he could also soothe frown lines away from his brow. If only Lucifer was ever troubled, if only he would believe Sandalphon worthy of being his confidante. If only Sandalphon could share his burdens with him, bear them on his shoulders.

He makes this wish every night and wakes the next morning, again, with a lightness to his body that almost makes him feel like he might start floating away, and but all at once makes his entire frame feel a thousand times heavier. There are no burdens for him to share, and there are no blue eyes that soften every time at his curious questions. Lucifer will not be here today, he said he’ll have something occupying his time yesterday when they met. So Sandalphon goes trailing the hallways, hood pulled over his face, a pretense of ignorance towards curious and judgemental eyes that never seem to stop following him.

_Is a life so devoid of meaning that great of a spectacle?_

He thinks these thoughts to himself with all the bitterness he dares to bear in his heart. He shouldn’t feel any at all, he _knows._ Lucifer’s warmth has touched him far too many times, for him to have any right of complaint. But he’s not complaining, is he? This cannot count as complaint. He only wants to offer Lucifer all the kindness he has given him in return. Everyone else does. In this seemingly endless maze of rooms and halls and pillars, some corners of it so dark and cold Sandalphon dare not step near them, everyone works in part to fulfill their own part in fulfilling the purpose of the supreme one, to help with his governace.

He continues to walk the hallways endlessly, and wonders, if he were to write a poem or a novel about these very walls, all the oddities and creatures they looked too fragile to hide behind them, how the skydwellers would feel upon reading the story. Lucifer said the skies are beautiful, and though another to look upon the majestic exterior design of this shrine and say they were the same, Sandalphon at best thought them plain, and at worst a macabre nightmare.

He supposes the way his story would be read would depend on the delivery, then.

Perhaps, if he only wrote of the painted walls of the entrance hallway, decorated with statues of otherworldly beings that may or may not exist, and of flowers carved in exaggerated details on the pillars… of the way Olivia’s wings reflected the colors of sunset and the fiery beauty with which the Primarch of flames burned, the children of man would listen to their parents read his writings with as much fascination as his when he reads about _them_.

Or, if he wrote about Lucifer, of blue eyes that you could never see the depths of, a faint glow beneath ivory skin and a voice that was the music of rivers and the rains of summer… surely, everyone would be deceived. No one can look at the sun and see shadows surrounding it. No one will look upon the place where Lucifer resides, as short as the days of his visits were at times, and believe for a moment that just behind a nearby wall, a living being is choking on blood caught in their throat, as scalpels carved their flesh and cords pierced their skin and their sight was blinded to everything but the pain that coursed through their body.

He stops walking, before the gates of the garden. It’s a rather odd place, this one where the angels were born. This he decides on, numb to the phantom pain that clawed through his skin at his thoughts. One day, he’ll encompass all the wonders of it in the covers of a book, no more than a hundred pages long. Because surely, the serenity of the chapter about the gardens will make all the readers forget the story’s horrors.

He himself does. Almost.

* * *

 

 

 

 

>   _ii._ _Pinocchio_

 

The gardens are rotting.

“You’ve dirtied your pretty little fingers again, Sandy.”

The gardens are rotting, but this creature currently occupying far too much space in them has long since been rotten to his core.

With a hiss he stands and steps away from the pile of weeds he’d been furiously yanking out, hiding his hands away. The creature is _vile_. Since the first moment Sandalphon had met him, he’d shuddered and hid behind Lucifer. At the time, it had been intimidation that made him cower away, aware of the difference of status. Overtime, it became a growing irritation, the reminder of the other’s very existence an itch under his skin. Finally, it became full blown anger. The creature made himself a nest within him, and around his stolen land all festered inside Sandalphon. He was a blight that infected Sandalphon long before his own hatred did.

He wonders, almost asked out loud once, how Lucifer’s observant eye had missed such terrible animosity on his end, towards he whom may as well count as Lucifer’s own equal. But the anger of a little peasant child towards a minister would matter little to a king. At least not to one who does not know justice. And Sandalphon has learned selfishness now, learned to find justice in only what included himself. Lucifer only ever saw significance in the doll who danced to amuse him, never in the soul that was caged within it. It’s only fair that Sandalphon could be that way too.

But it’s hardly _truly_ fair in the end, there will be no justice and it’s so frustrating to think of that he wants to drag his nails across his arms and tear at them. It won’t be as satisfying as breaking Lucifer’s skin, making him see that even he has flesh and blood behind all the curtains of light and moral righteousness he hides himself behind. But it’s easier, more realistic to imagine his own broken form than to imagine a single scratch upon _his_ perfection.

It’s _infuriating_ , but not nearly as much as the cold fingers that trace his own dirty ones, the towering figure suddenly too close. Not yet.

He flinches away again, lips curling in a snarl. Belial only answers with a laugh. He takes a moment to slowly observe the pile of weeds, then the rest of the garden, humming thoughtfully all the while.

Sandalphon wishes he would just leave. No, he’s approaching the point where merely _wishing_ for things may no longer tie him over. He feels like he will burst. Like he will rip Belial’s head from his shoulders and watch as the blood seeps through his immaculate white suit, redder than the scarlet of his own eyes. He’s almost _seething_ with the urge, and he knows he’s never been this openly aggressive before. Yet the fiend pretends not to notice, continuing to look around like a fool as if anything could actually hide from him if he was truly looking for it. As if the presence of the one he’d come searching for could ever be missed.

 _Die. Die._ **_Die_ **.

“I see the Supreme Primarch isn’t here.” Sandalphon may as well have been scratching his wrists open at that moment, and he would not have felt the sting beneath the anger at merely hearing him _speak_ , “I thought that around this time, he would surely be here playing around with little Sandy… Did you two have a quarrel?” A cold chuckle, “That’s quite awful of you, Sandy. You shouldn’t bite your kindly master’s hand, you know. You’ll make him cry if you keep doing this.”

Sandalphon hadn’t _meant_ to rise to the bait. He knew it, how he would regret doing so later. Probably. If he hadn’t lost his mind completely by then, still had enough reason left to remember what terrible consequences too much misbehaviour could have have for him. Because even if Belial never responded negatively to his backhanded comments thinly veiled with vague politeness, even so, he could still… he could…

_He could do what? What could be worse than what you’re living already?_

“He wasn’t happy about the sullen face his doll made today.”

How pathetic must he be, that such petty words could bring him joy?

Words that may as well have been spoken to a slab of wood, for all the difference they will make in his lowly life. Wasn’t it one of those stories from the sky realm that said so much about what happiness the little insignificant things in life could bring? Is that how Lucifer feels about him? It must be. Just like the bitter words he’d thrown, just as how they could change little in his life but were a balm on the turmoil within him, Sandalphon is the same. The useless replacement turned plaything for Lucifer to keep in his beautiful, rotting garden.

Belial stares at him for a long moment, then throws his head back. He laughs and laughs and laughs, and if the sound hadn’t been grating his ears so much, Sandalphon might’ve laughed with him. He might’ve laughed so hard he would’ve collapsed, and been unable to stand when Belial takes his filthy hands and pulls him flush against himself, holding one palm up high and placing the other at his hip, leading him in a dance Sandalphon does not know the steps of. Yet he stumbles along, tries to keep up. Tries to match the madness that danced in Belial’s expression. Lucifer had commented before, on how similar the color of their eyes were. There had been something like disapproval in his tone, a frown on his face that Sandalphon couldn’t bother remembering the reason for. Or if he’d _ever_ known the reason for it.

Lucifer’s frowns in front of him had never remained in place for long, always clearing away before Sandalphon could make out even a hint of his thoughts. His time in his amusement land is limited, after all. Before long, he would have to return to his place in the light, in front of his blind followers, and pretend he cares about what he leaves behind.

And when the amusement just wasn’t doing his best, might as well cut the time short instead of finding out the reason why.

Belial twirls him in his arms once and twice. On the third turn, the lightheaded feeling dissipates, leaving behind not much of anything and a lot of nothing. He slumps, but the fiend’s arms remain around him, holding him upright even as his knees give out beneath him. He has to remind himself then, that he despises this creature still, will never stop doing so. He hopes he conveys this message with his gaze alone, because suddenly even speaking feels too tiresome.

Belial lowers himself down, until he’s sitting on the grass, Sandalphon’s waist cradled firmly with one arm. Thus he too is brought down, his head hanging back, hood falling away. It’s just by chance, he convinces himself, that his stare lands on the table several feet away, the neatly carved wood that was painted white, covered by a tablecloth chosen by Lucifer. The same one Sandalphon had stained by breaking his cup of coffee over it, after watching him walk away that day.

He doesn’t know how, or why, or when, but his cheeks suddenly felt wet. His eyes itched. His throat burned. Everything suddenly felt too much, too different from his high that filled his head with so much emptiness just moments ago. Why did he have to be brought down again?

“Hey… hey, Sandy, don’t cry just yet.” Belial’s voice is what he supposes is meant to be soothing, but it feels not different from the sickening slide of a snake’s scales around his neck, trying to squeeze the life out of him, “Save your tears for now. I’ll take you somewhere you’ll be so happy in, you’ll keep crying tears of joy instead.”

“Shut up.” For all his throat felt closed, Sandalphon finds his voice satisfyingly devoid of emotion. Oh, he is so far past his pretences of respect, “You’ll never make me happy.”

Belial is almost smiling softly when he looks at him, “No, I guess I won’t.” He props Sandalphon’s head up higher, until his cold cheek pressed against the other’s tear-stained one. His lips brush his ear when he speaks next, a ghost of his chilling breath making Sandalphon want to curl into himself, to perhaps hide away, “But can’t you see, Sandy? Nothing will ever make you happy again.”

The noise that escapes him sounds less like fury and more like horror.

“So why don’t you make yourself happy? In our special place, you can.”

* * *

 

 

 

 

> _iii. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_

 

Underneath the moonlight, the corpses of the Astrals lining the darkened hallways look like a painting, a sight that steals his breath away.

They’re like the colorful flowers of the gardens, their white robes made filthy with blood. But the redness compliments the fabric like the gold embroidered on it. Stars are dull on their own, an insipid, monochrom sight. Like this, however… like this, their children truly present their supposed beauty, now that they were no longer little sparks of light but fallen splashes of vibrant colors across the darkness of the night.

Marvelling at their poetic beauty, Sandalphon almost begins to sing. He’s always had a knack for music, though as far as his ability goes, he’s uncertain as he’s never had an audience to perform for.

Once he’d wanted to perform for _him_ , just like one of the songbirds resting in their nests upon the tree branches. He’d imagined _his_ hand in his instead of the icy, of his blade, made wet with blood and sweat. He would’ve sang and danced for him for days without rest, if only he’d wished it.

Now… now, he wants to sing for him still.

An elegy of grief for these corpses that were once their masters. He will laugh and dance like a fool all the while, a sight of mad ecstasy to bring upon him all the repulsed glares of the gods and white-clad kings that still thought they could rule their fates. He will make Lucifer stand witness to it all, will watch him hang his head in shame at how far his own own creation has fallen. How the favoured flower of his garden has wilted, become so deformed and distorted that it grew thorns and pierced his own hand if he tried to touch it. How glad he must feel that he never will! Never again! His clean, saintly hands should never have to become so sullied as to touch him, not even for a moment.

No, no, Sandalphon knows. He knows that when this insane, hopeless quest for freedom comes to an end, when all the lies are surfaced and all the deceptions discovered, the endless blue eyes will hardly glance in his direction as he falls. He won’t ever catch a glimpse of light-touched skin again, and he won’t hear even a murmur of that voice that was lovelier than the music of bells and harps.

And it’s just as well that he won’t.

Sandalphon wants none of it. Not anymore.

Never again.

He mutters these words to himself, and eventually they pick up rhythm and he become a little song he’s humming. Curious eyes peer at him, hidden in the shadows. Their stares are one of curiosity, a bit of frustration. They’re not angels, then. They’re the helpless lambs reaching for fruits too high up the tree for their hands to catch. But can they be blamed, when even those who surrounded the tree couldn’t have those treasures it has? And can _he_ blame anyone when he hardly looks past anything but the next step he’s taking?

No one will escape this _rebellion_ , so audaciously named, in good fortune.

He wants them to know that he alone _knows_ , whoever they may be that’s pulling these strings. He wants to spit it in their face, that this war they have wrought will come back to their own door, that it won’t leave until it’s reaped their own life. There will be no mercy to be found in the perfect judgement of--

He stops thinking.

Sandalphon doesn’t look past the next step he will take, but he looks far, far ahead, into a truth that no one else sees, or refuses to see.

Dawn is coming, and the song he has composed has long since lost its tone. The word scheme just doesn’t rhyme well. He tries different songs, then. Ones he’d made up himself and ones he’d read in books. They come out through furious breaths he takes, as the sun finally reaches its place high in the skies and then it's there, glaring them all in the face. Inevitable defeat, in that form of unreachable beauty that his heart was chasing even as he tried to kill it, kill his own heart and all that remained in it of hopeless emotion. He tries it with every faceless body he cuts down, every strike aimed at himself as much as it is at his enemies. And yet it isn’t enough, and he starts to question whether anything will _ever_ be enough to chase it away, this ache that never seems to subside, no matter how many war cries rip their way out of his throat and how much blood splatters across his face and armour.

A hundred years of killing, maybe. Perhaps a thousand. Or two thousand.

And even then it wouldn’t be enough.

He almost wants to laugh, when all he’d predicted comes true. They’re defeated, so miserably that it could be most pitiful sight of the millenium. _He_ sees it through, sees the process of it but not the faces there, neither the familiar ones nor the unfamiliar, his hands clean, his visage so far away, hidden from the lowly ones’ sight. He’s as deaf to Olivia’s enraged scream, so uncharacteristic of her, as he is to Sariel’s tortured grunts when they finally bring him down, the last of the rebels to continue his stand. Sandalphon sees him only briefly as he falls, and the injuries upon him are so many it’s a wonder his body simply doesn’t fall apart in pieces on its way to the ground. Jehoel, Dumah, Azazel, Cassiel, and Hashmal, all of them, laying about with twisted limbs and grieving expressions.

Sandalphon envies them, so very much.

They don’t need to go so far to disarm him. Not at all. It’s especially easy to do so when like a battle-crazed fool, or perhaps a suicidal one, he charges straight up to _him_ , seeing nothing else, not even the strike so obviously coming his way. It could be that he didn’t want to see it. Or maybe that strike wasn’t what brought him down at all, but something else, another attack he couldn’t counter.

He doesn’t remember it very well, when he awakens to the glass walls of his prison. When he realises that he is still alive, and one of his predictions weren’t proven true at all.

They don’t dispose of them. Against all odds, they don’t. They’re locked away like unneeded supplies in a safe instead, with an eternity of pure nothingness to look forward to. Arguably a crueler punishment for those like them, who will live forever with the walls of their cage an everlasting remainder of their sin. Thinking of it then, the first time he lays down in his cage, still numb, still confused, Sandalphon realises he should’ve known this too. Should’ve known _he_ would do this, content himself with not cutting them down, while punishing them in a way worse than death. But then, he would not be the one deciding this. It is his Astral master, the one he’d so honestly called his friend. Ah, if it’s him, then this makes sense. He doesn’t mind keeping useless things around, if they could prove to be entertaining.

He has bad taste.

This isn’t entertaining, nor beautiful in the same way those Astrals’ corpses were in the tower they’d raided. There is nothing good to be had of this, he whispers out loud, drawing his legs to his chest. It’s been a few days now. Since his imprisonment. Probably. Maybe. Time had lost its meaning long before he’d been locked up, since the moment his blade first drove its way through a researcher. But now, now… outside… there is nothing outside. He sleeps and wakes and sleeps and wakes and then he can’t tell the difference between slumber and wakefulness anymore.

And he waits.

Waits for _something._ For anything. When he starts seeing things, things aside from unblemished walls, he thinks they’re real. Likely, because he wishes they were. He sees an Astral staring at him, one he remembers cutting down himself. Her dark eyes stare at him without expression. She’s a corpse. Yet she’s _looking_ at him, seeing him, and he cries out and attacks her, chokes the life that shouldn’t be left in her body out. He blinks once and she’s gone. Next he sees several bodies in front of him bearing familiar faces, yet dead and gone. He dare not approach them. Because a murderer’s hands will surely end them completely, and maybe they’re still alive after all, maybe they’re still there, someone is still out there who shares this misfortune with him.

He sees _him_ most often.

He always runs up to him. Every single time. He hits him, shoves at him, but can never hurt him too much. Places his weak hands around his neck but can never bring himself to squeeze them. Twice, he holds onto him, and cries so hard he nearly throws up. Once, Lucifer cradles him with one arm and touches his cheek with the other, telling him with all the kindness that no one person could ever possess, that he wants him despite everything.

He learns, eventually, that he’s dreaming.

It’s the sounds of a nearby prisoner’s infuriated cries that makes him realise it. Their voice is faint, but to his ears, in all this silence, they sound loud, loud enough to awaken him. After that, he realises that when he strains his ears, he can hear more sounds, more noises from the others. He listens to their melody, made euphonious with how faint they sounded through the glass walls, and eventually, after a while, he learns how to sleep without dreams.

It takes a while, but he does.

* * *

 

 

 

>   _iv._ _Sleeping Beauty_

 

When he awakens to the silence of the world within his cradle, Sandalphon first learns a lesson on the ambiguity of time.

How long passed, between escaping his second prison and waking up in the third one? It couldn’t have been more than a week. For all that the events of that brief, brief time of freedom seemed like a fantasy conjured up by the broken parts of his mind, Sandalphon hadn’t entirely lost his grip on reality at the time. His rampage, his freedom had not lasted a week, because he couldn’t have afforded to wait. Every second he took to simply _breath_ was too long, a waste of a precious time he’d been miraculously granted to almost do what an army failed before. If only this recent chapter of the illustrious horror story that is his life hadn’t ended so miserably, Sandalphon might’ve felt a little proud of himself, for all that he could achieve in such a short time while holding onto his sanity with as much success as a single rope in keeping an entire bridge hanging.

The details of his escape are what he remembers the least. Alarmingly so, but not surprisingly. There is only so much to recall from a mad dash at a very weak opportunity, one that might’ve slipped him if he’d been but a pace slower. If he’d been locked away in Pandemonium again, he imagines he would’ve grieved over this far more than he does now. Provided that he could bring himself to burn with the same passionate spite as before. Perhaps, possibly, the sight of those damned glass walls would’ve awakened that hysterical anger again, had him slamming his hands endlessly on them before finally breaking down and curling into himself in a corner, muttering curses and vows of vengeance and maybe, a plea or two.

Lucifer seems to have learned that one lesson, although he’s missed the entire point by a long, long distance.

_“Hate me! Destroy me! Punish me!”_

He still means those words, even though he finds himself feeling alive for the first time in two thousand years, when he sits beneath the patio, having a cup of coffee that would be the first of many in this dreamscape. No, likely, it is this feeling itself, the deafening silence that’s yet too different from the one in Pandemonium, that makes him long to perish. In Pandemonium, it was easy to blend one’s very existence with the damp air that grew too thick at times, with the faint grunts and sounds that flitted from here and there, with the knowledge that everything that was not their clean prison walls was either a dream, a vision borne of insanity, or an illusion conjured by the otherworldly beings that crawled through the halls but never past the cages of the beasts.

Here, Sandalphon feels as though every inch of this limited space is a mirror, revealing in its reflection of him things he doesn’t want to see, things he’s long known about himself, or things he’d forgotten about.

The first time he touches the coffee plants, feels their fragile gentleness, he thinks of hands that felt just as soft but so much stronger. He thinks of the first steps his bare feet ever took, slow and lacking in balance, but never losing their direction, lead by those same hands that held his own carefully.

When he lays down on the grass, staring up at that illusion of the eternally dull sky, he finds the sight reminiscent of the very first memory his eyes etched into his head. He convinces himself the heaviness he feels in the center of his chest and all the way to his core is wistfulness. A longing for a time when he was so much more naive, but not nearly as wretched as he is now. You do not have to feel agony if you just don’t know it, after all. And Sandalphon agonises. Here, that’s all he can bear to do. Anger steals his breath away, makes him too tired to keep up any pretenses of it. To plan any more plots, to take aim at himself and everyone else with all the hatred that’s too much for him now.

Tired, yes. He’s tired and wonders if Lucifer sees it, had seen it before. Can he actually look within the spirit realm of the seraphic cradle? He’s uncertain whether Lucifer has that particular capability, but also, why would he not? Is there truly anything that can elude him, perfection incarnate? The pinnacle of all existence, the envy of the gods, the guiding light of the realm that Sandalphon continues to pay the price for defying. He wonders when Lucifer will just have enough of this, of him. There is only so much patience one could have. Once he rebelled and killed his Astral masters, now he’s rebelled again and tried to ruin something far more precious.

Lucifer’s beloved sky.

He’s staring at it now. Well, a picture of it. His eyes will never see the true might of it again. Not as long as Lucifer’s unsatisfied. He sees it through the leaves and branches of a tree in this mocking copy of that garden, and convinces himself that he’s only speaking out loud to test his hypothesis.

“You’re crueler than anyone I’ve ever known.”

It’s a very poor lie, worse than the ones he usually feeds himself. How would he know that Lucifer can see or hear him in this place, when he’ll never respond?

“You’re such a liar. I can’t even sleep in this place. How am I resting?... you were always a liar. Even back then, you knew how bitter the coffee was and that I couldn’t stand it. But you still made me drink it.”

He closes his eyes to the sky and focuses. Soon he can hear it, the painful cacophony of the chaos he’d caused, the clanging of blades hitting each other,  his own roars that made his ears ring. It gives him something to blame his tears on, something that is not this eternal ache burrowed so deep within him.

“I wish I never knew you. Just like you never knew me.”

But perhaps it’s not a misplaced blame after all. Maybe there is something to this. Maybe he is not crying for just one ache, one scar that he’d inflicted on himself, but for many. For all of them. For all he’d done wrong that he could’ve done right. Maybe somewhere, somewhere inside him that he’s too afraid to reach, he can still remember what he’d once been like.

“Just let me go already.”

If Lucifer had been unable to hear him before, he certainly can’t hear the trembling whisper Sandalphon spoke into his knees, curled into himself as he is, cold with the fright of a criminal who who’d only just learned the weight of their deeds. More dreadful to them still, the verdict of their own guilt.  

“Lucifer.”

It’s almost a prayer. Almost an admission. Almost the small chirp of a little sparrow. But his voice has grown too heavy, his music long lost in the passing of two milennia, and in the end it’s only a toneless uttering of three syllables.

He can’t bring himself to say anything more.

* * *

 

 

 

>   _v._ _The Prince and the Pauper_
> 
>  

When the unruly mortal peasant finally comes in service to his king, he comes bearing wishes for gold and titles.

When Sandalphon comes to serve his king, he wishes for no more than a smile in return. His desired compensation is far more priceless, far more impossible to have than all the riches of the realm.

It’s what all the logic and laws of nature would have him believe. When he held that precious head in his arms, he didn’t make peace with this, but he knew it to be true, the weight of six glorious wings, undeserving as he is of them, as painful of reminder as death itself could be. Perhaps worse. No, certainly worse. He can’t imagine that there could be something worse than this out there, and it scares him even more to realise that it’s possible. That for all the years he’s lived, far longer than anyone aboard the airship he’s found a temporary home in, he knows even less of the skies than some of the mortals. Another mark of his failure to fulfill the purpose he’s been given, but Sandalphon never intended to play that role, and he won’t start now either. His purpose, his chosen purpose, is what it has been two thousand years into the past, what all of his wishes had been about in that shaded garden.

In a way, he supposes, Lucifer never needed to tell him to live for himself. Sandalphon always did so. Always selfish, always running wild and disregarding all that was meant for him. Only, he wonders if he’s ever known how to _live_ at all.

To imply that fighting because of one’s own desires… _for_ their own desires, if that is what being alive is all about, Sandalphon is decidedly just cursed.

“You’re spacing out again.”

Sandalphon recognises the amused quality of that feminine voice firstly, before anything else. He doesn’t bother to turn and look at Djeeta as she saunters into the rooms, and she doesn’t stare in his way for long either, already aware of what he’s up to, going to rummage through the cupboards for a snack instead. There is an itch inside him that tells him to scold her for her bad eating habits, but he refrains. Djeeta is the more upbeat one between the two singularities, but remarkably less stubborn. Still, there is only so many _“you’re such a mum!”_ jokes he can handle for one day, followed by any one embarrassing nickname they’ve chosen to call him with that day.

“And you’re up in the middle of night again.” he replies anyway, because it would be too impolite not to. His slackened hold on the cup tightens as he finally turns in her direction.

“So are you.” Djeeta counters, finally having found her desired junk of a food as she made herself comfortable at the table. Sandalphon internally scrapes away that itch again.

“I don’t need sleep.”

“But you _do_ rest. At least that’s what I guess you do all day in your room.”

It’s a close guess. Sandalphon assumes what she _really_ wants to say is, in fact, what he truly does. That is, whiling time away in dreams, those of the waking hours and also those of sleep. He appreciates her decorum, in not brazenly pointing out his incessant grieving to him.

“You know,” she begins, digging through the plastic bag in her hands, “I actually don’t know why I’ve been so insomniac lately. I guess because I’m always so busy during the day, I just don’t notice when it gets too much.”

Sandalphon doesn’t reply, unsure of what to say. His silence is taken as an invitation, sparing him the need to come up with words.

“Even though I love this crew more than myself, sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if I… if we never left our village.” although she isn’t melancholic, there is a quietness to her words that gives away her true feelings, “Probably… so much more quiet, but maybe not…”

“Bad.” he finishes for her, and she merely nods. Silence settles between them, the kind that are a cue for him to say _something_ more, a word of comfort or advise. He hopes she’ll forego any more conversation. Said hopes are naturally discarded in the next second, and he is left wondering why they all seem to like talking to him so much.

“This is the part where you give me an inspirational speech about how the change I made in my life has changed it for the better, even if it doesn’t seem that way sometimes.”

The amusement has returned to her voice now, although her expression has yet to brighten to its usual cheer. Sandalphon finds himself frowning, an odd feeling of dismay welling up inside him at her words.

“And I suppose you still haven’t had enough of hearing those speeches, so you came to hear it from me too.”

Silence stretches between them, long and heavy. She doesn’t try to keep her smile then, the pressing her lips together and looking down at her greasy hands instead. There are a few bits of crumbs around the corners of her mouth, a small detail that he otherwise may not have cared to notice, but paid attention to in that moment as _he_ waited for her this time, to speak. Drumming his fingers on the cup in his hands absentmindedly, realisation dawns on him, that his coffee has since grown lukewarm, and he promptly takes a sip from it. As expected, the taste is hardly bearable, at this temperature. But it’s not the first time he’s drank his coffee this way. He remembers a time, long ago, sitting at a white-painted table with the soft, rustling sounds of nature a background music, making eager conversation, sometimes so engrossed in it that he would forget his coffee until he was reminded of it. He could not refuse to drink it, just like he couldn’t that first time he tried the beverage.

It’s dangerous, to think of these memories as he is. He’s always teetering on the edge of a self-made illusion that threatens to swallow every bit of his willpower to escape it. In the late hours of the night -- or rather, early morning, such mirages feel even more powerful. It’s also around this time that he can afford to waver, to let it swallow him a little, just enough for it to be satiated and leave him alone for the rest of the day.

In that sense, he feels a bit of resentment towards Djeeta, for ruining this arrangement of his. It’s a taxing arrangement, yes, hardly a desirable one in any way, but there’s always some comfort to be found in patterns, a bit of hope in their seemingly permanent continuity.

It’s also what makes them so dangerous, because you won’t notice everything going downhill until it’s too late and you’re shattered by the very thing that brought you comfort before.

That… is something she should learn. Yes, indeed, Sandalphon may not have much knowledge of the sky realm and its ways, but he likes to think he’s gone through more turmoil than others, in ways that he likes to think he’s finally learning the proper lessons from.

“Thanks.”

His head snaps up, shock no doubt clear in his face. At the obvious question in his expression, Djeeta smiles, not quite happy but looking appeased.

“I knew I could depend on you.”

“... I’m sorry?”

There is a slight sneaker before she responds, “Gran said you’re a good conversation partner, especially for hearing the things no one else likes to tell you.”

"And that makes me good....?”

“Sure.” She looks down, smoothing her hands over her nightdress, “Like you said, there’s only so many times you need to hear “it’s going to be okay”.... Sometimes, it’s just as good to feel like you deserve being a little sad. Not a lot of people know which one to say when.”

He hesitates, shuffling a little on his feet. Her words were nigh embarrassing to hear, making him lower his head. He isn’t sure what could possibly prompt such an… idea of him, he can’t remember the last time he’d held a proper conversation that wasn’t cut short by his own unwillingness to participate in it, be that unwillingness justified or not. Or… no, he does remember, only…

Only… he can never be _good_ that way again.

He slowly looks back up at her, his mouth set in a thin line. Originally, he would’ve made a dismissive remark to brush her off, yet the bitterness welling inside his belly cannot be ignored.

“Knowing one or two things to say at the right time doesn’t make for a good conversationalist, Singularity, if you fail at what to say every other time. You only think so because I told you what you wanted to hear at this moment.”

She looks like a wilted flower in that moment, as though the degradation was thrown at her rather than himself. The expression fills him with a terrible kind of frustration, one that he knows is not pointed at her. He turns away, giving her his back as he places the cup on the counter, the urge to slam it down held back with considerable effort.

With his back to her, he could not have known what kind of face she had when, after a long pause, she stood from her place, the scratching sound of the chair legs an indication of her movement. There was cheer in her voice, a kind of certainty that was at best naive considering her words.

“It’s okay, Sandy. We’ll apologise to him one day.”

She leaves before he even has time to feel anger, or horror, embarrassment, or gratefulness. Or any awful combination of them. He turns around and she’s seemingly disappeared into thin air, not even the tapping of her steps heard, and he’s left to wonder if she’s even been there, or if he’s simply, truly lost his mind already. A foolish idea, really… because those words are just like her. Like Gran. Like _Lyria_. He’s sank down to the floor before he realises it, leaning his head back against the solid surface of the cupboards.

We’ll apologise. _He’ll_ apologise. It almost has him chuckling, the notion of it. How purely sentimental Djeeta’s thinking is. As if all it will take is his own will and wishful thinking. Once, he would’ve thought of such naively spoken words as mockery, a reminder of how unfair life could be, for one to live such a fortunate life that they could challenge the finality of death this way, while others were condemned simply for living. Now, he’s almost endeared by it. Almost content, with the knowledge that the world is kind to those who deserve it. Not always, hardly most of the time, but enough that… enough that…

It might be worth existing in.

He cannot believe her. Even though he wishes he could’ve, if only because it looks easy. They make it so easy to believe in such faraway dreams that will forever remain out of reach, and stay content and hopeful in their false belief. He doesn’t believe her in that moment no more than he does during the battle at Pandemonium, with the loss of all that they’ve ever fought for together but a hair’s breadth away. Yet he finds hope in those words, in the ones that everyone else offers him, than he’s thought himself capable of having. He thinks that he’s finally starting to learn their ways now, even though his heart will never settle like theirs.

Not even when he _does_ apologise.

Because they, in their simple ways, will never learn the true meaning of wretchedness, of the blights greed brings upon a person. Because one regal smile makes in his heart a desire for an infinite number of them, for the permission to be allowed to have them. Because it’s not okay, he’ll never be okay and even when it feels so right, he will always know that it’s not.

 _But…_ it’s not so bad.

Even when it feels like a physical of himself has been disjoined and left behind, he keeps going. It’s not okay, but it’s not bad, and this inbetween is the most blessed he’s been for over two thousand years. When he opens his eyes to see the wide expanse of the skies, he thinks of the way Lucifer’s eyes seemed to be brighter than he last saw them, in that far away realm that should not have existed, yet it became a point of a reunion none could’ve expected to come. He is once more convinced that those eyes are still the most beautiful blue he’s seen. The world here will play a poor substitute for them, but it will be okay. The imposter’s eyes are insultingly similar, but they hide in their depths secrets Sandalphon almost fears to see, and it sets him on the edge of familiar, explosive anger. But they won’t have to see each other often, Vyrn says by way of reassurance and the clown who wears that beloved face nods in silent obedience, so it will be okay.

It will have to be okay, so Lucifer’s eyes will remain bright with relief where he rests. For his own sake too, when he returns to him and his own heart could be at peace.

* * *

 

 

 

>   
>  _vi. Beauty and (the) Beast_

 

Just like in the mortals’ most cliched adventure stories, it’s a very quiet afternoon when the world nearly falls apart right before their eyes.

He had not known it before, when the dimensional tear had swallowed Lucilius and that vermin, too caught up in the adrenaline of a victory seemingly impossible to achieve, just how terrifying the sight of it is. Because they, the primal beasts, are also children of the sky realm, every bit sure of the eternity of its presence as the mortals. So when they stood there, bearing witness to it breaking apart like glass pieces, it was all they could do to stand and gape, until the shuddering of the airship threw them off their feet and forced them into action. The creatures that appeared before them, swarming the airship like black moths gathering around a single flame, looked pitiful, and sounded even more so, low moans of despair leaving their smokey, misshapen lips. Sandalphon almost feels sympathy when he’s cutting them down; they seem confused, at a loss, trying to reach across the airship and mournfully crying out when they fail.

They gather towards him, most desperately. Only to slink away and disperse, as though disappointed by what they found.

The erratic behaviour is no less visible to the others than it is to him, and Lyria is soon by his side. She shakes her head at his silent question when he looks at her.

"They’re not primal beasts… and they, they feel very different from the Otherworldly ones. I can’t…” she looks distressed, clutching at her dress, and despite the heat of the battle, he wants to touch her hair in reassurance, “I don’t know what they are… but they’re so…”

“In pain.” He finishes, and a simple nod comes in answer. Gritting his teeth, Sandalphon takes her by the hand, leading her backwards slowly. They were too far apart from the rest -- he’d been alone by himself when the attack happened, a relaxing moment of solitude where he’d contemplated things too private to be shared with anyone. He regrets it in that moment.

“Why did you come here?” he asks heatedly, finally spreading all six wings and stepping in front of her, hiding her figure behind his own completely.

“L-Lucio collapsed earlier, and he said… he said we should protect you just as they came out. I couldn’t find anyone fast enough, so I…”

There were many, many things to contemplate in that moment. Ultimately, he will wrap up all those questions in a single confrontation with that… that _fake_ who thought he could simply get away with hiding things from everyone this way. Later, after these ones were dealt with, after the sky… somehow, they’ll have to deal with the sky too--

A frustrated cry left him. With one arm around Lyria to keep her safely close to himself, he charges forward, sword drawn. It isn’t the fault of these poor twisted creatures that he is so infuriated in that moment, but they are enemies and they’re there, so he feels little remorse in cutting them down as violently as he does. It’s only Lyria’s presence that keeps the worst of his temper from showing its ugliness, and he is grateful for it. One by one they go down, and the girl clings to him harder, looking more and more apprehensive. Sandalphon doesn’t pay it any mind, not until he’s cleared most of the deck of the dark, skeletal figures. By then, other crew members who were still onboard had come out to hold the defense, and satisfied with his own work, the archangel turned on his heel, charging past them and inside. He keeps the blue girl at his side, and she shows no intention to let him go either, out of what he can only assume is a need for safety.

Their-- or rather, _his_ advance, proves to be a useless one. When they arrive at the doorway of the man’s room, they find a dishevelled mess and no sign of the person who resides in it. He sets Lyria on her feet then, and although he knows his absence--that clown has a unique presence, not something he would miss--he still rushes inside, in hopes of finding him, or any sign of him. There’s none, of course, and he lets out a noise of frustration before he turns back to Lyria.

“Can you tail him?” he demands, though his tone softens, unlike the anger he feels within.

With a shake of her head, Lyria gazes forward at a particular spot, where he assumes she’d seen Lucio collapse. He waits for her, anxious, the sounds of battle outside not lost to his ears. But he can see the look of concentration across her face. Sandalphon knows her well enough by now. He can tell she feels, knows, _anticipates_ something, simply could not put her finger on it. Whatever answer she finds in that mystery field of her vision, it’s of more value than anything else he himself can find.

Yet he can only remain patient for too long, when the _skies are falling_ , and soon a demand leaves him, “Well?”

Lyria stiffens, looking up at him with startled eyes. Her apprehension grows as she looks at him, he notices with no small amount of dread, and he knows right then. That something… _something_ had gone horribly wrong.

He grabs her by the arm. Not roughly, but with enough urgency. It’s only her who he will allow his fear to show to. In a choked voice, he demands again, “Lyria… Please.”

She withers under the weight of his gaze, and finally, with difficulty, still in confusion of her own senses, she speaks again, “I… I don’t know. I’m not sure. But earlier, I think… I could swear I felt--”

Her sentence is cut short by a shout, Gran’s voice voicing commands while the rest of the crew stalked through the halls to check for any enemies left. So it has ended. And he _should_ be relieved but the dread only grows, especially when he sees the tall figure of a black-armoured knight stomping past the room with Lucio’s prone figure in his arms, followed closely by the blond-haired alchemist. Sandalphon nearly makes to follow, to shake the imposter violently until he wakes and this time, dig the answers out of him one way or another. He’s already taken the first step when he feels small hands circle his wrist, keeping him in place. Not with strength, he could’ve shaken off that hold with a flick of his hand, but with the weight of that stare, fixed on him so determinedly. So he stands helplessly, as Gran walks to pause by the door, sweat at his brow and exhaustion in his expression.

“Lyria?” He questions, his voice nearly desperate, not different from Sandalphon’s own if he were to speak. And Sandalphon wants to. He wants help. Wants to snap. Wants answers. Above all else, he wants to know what this feeling inside him is, the light, buzzing sensation on his spine.

With one of the singularities there, it seemed like Lyria finally clears away her doubts. With a firmly stare, she looks first at Gran and then at him, that look of blank perception in her eyes that he’s never gotten good at reading.

“The city ruins to the west of us. He should be there.”

He barely hears anything anyone says after that.

Back at the same spot on the deck, he’s silent as Gran explains to him what had unfolded earlier. Of Lucio manifesting in a different form, being the one who closed the tears in the sky, the one who stopped those creatures’ assault. He gives him an estimation of how long it will take for them to reach the ruins, even reassures him it won’t take too long. Sandalphon can’t _hear_ him, thugh _._ And he feels quite ready to burst, with the assault of confusion, of happiness, of dread. So much is happening again and he’s not quite sure what to make of it. But there is light down this unknown path, the same beloved light that always pulled him towards itself. Sandalphon has never had any intention of turning away from it, _couldn’t_ even, not when it was everywhere in his vision. It’s all the hope he needs to scratch away at the itch of anxiety within himself, determined to chase that light to the very end.

What will become of him in the end, he doesn’t know. When Lyria comes to take Gran’s place next to him, on the deck, she doesn’t try to reassure him. Offers no words of comfort, but instead, talks about the dream she had last night. Of a bright, blinding star falling from the sky, shattering into many, many jewel pieces that enriched the fallen city where it had landed.

“You’re like that star too. Came falling and broke a few things, but now you’ve made all of us stronger and happier.”

He drops his face in his hand at the comment, his chuckles sounding just a little wet, shakey. He doesn’t cry, it’s too early for that. And why should he at all? Perhaps there is no pain down this road. Perhaps this time, the path to the light is carved finely, without monsters and snakes hiding away in shadowy corners, ready to pounce at him, to tear away at his skin.

And yet still, he bled.

They make it to the city ruins by sunset, and Sandalphon has left the airship before anyone could even catch a glimpse of his departure. They know he’s gone though, and they will follow, so it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. Sandalphon finds that little matters to him in that moment, the first one where he _feels_ him. He can _hear_ him. Not his voice, but his very core. It pulses in his ears, a furious beating sound, leaving behind goosebumps on Sandalphon’s skin. He leaves without a glance behind himself, because above his his apprehension, he wants a moment with him to himself. No, he wants more time with him for himself, doesn’t want anyone’s interference, anyone’s eyes on them when he finds him at last and--

He’s in an abandoned winery cellar.

The place looks quite grand even after its ruin. Sandalphon has the passing thought that it had likely been some wealthy noble’s celebration halls. But it’s an irrelevant matter. He rushes past the doors and the high ceilings shudder, threatening to give away any moment. That is also irrelevant; such thing won’t harm him, and it certainly won’t _stop_ him. Down the stairways he goes and _finally he can hear him--!_... hear the grunts of his pain.

He’s afraid then. Afraid of what he will see.

His steps slow, until they were hesitant, almost imbalanced, much like a child’s. The wooden doors are broken down, nothing to offer any veil to the sight, nothing to give him a moment of preparation.

He sees him finally.

“Lucifer.”

There is no response. His Lucifer lays motionless where he is. A crumbled figure on the dusty ground, twelve massive wings outstretched from his back. Some of them, he makes out despite the darkness, in a more grotesque shape. Less like the black wings of a raven, as _that person’s_ had been. They were misshapen, as if someone had broken them and remade them to their liking. His head dirtied, specks of filth in his silvery hair, and still further flawed with the pointed, crimson horns now extending on the sides. None of them things that belong on him, all of them the stains of another’s sin, the cruelties of a world that knew no mercy for its most virtuous one.

The world had once labelled him such a stain as well. And he’d given in to its abuse, became distorted and lost until his light had saved him.

His light that belongs to _him_ , the one that will forever shine within him even if it falls in the eyes of every other being.

It’s that thought that finally drives him forward, to walk towards him with steps that grew steadier than ever, determined now rather than hesitant. It’s that conviction that makes him kneel down, right by his side, even as that body--that same one that has been so gentle to him and yet is so lethal in that moment--convulses, pulses with a power familiar and yet mixed with something strange, otherworldly. When those wings stiffen and extend in a feral manner, when a beastly sound escapes Lucifer’s throat, when he cries out and sits upright and suddenly Sandalphon can see stars in his vision, his head slammed down on the stone floors, bleeding from his forehead… when he feels clawed fingers on his back, shredding the fabric and skin like cheap paper wrapped around a gift, he grits his teeth and bites back the pain, remembers that light and how he lost it so many times and yet it still returned to him.

Even now. Even in this moment, he has it, has him, with himself again.

And that’s enough.

He chokes on the blood in his throat, as he’s lifted like a rag doll, and it’s fortunate, he imagines removing that gauntlet-clad hand from his back himself may have been more troublesome than Lucifer doing it himself. It is misfortunate for _Lucifer_ , or rather, whatever is pulling at the strings of his sanity in that moment, because when their eyes meet, Sandalphon foregoes the realisation that he’s not staring into calm blue but rather, bright gold, in favour of reaching a hand forward, to touch the scar on Lucifer’s throat. His hand shakes, much like Lucifer’s around his neck. Like his lips too, and his shoulders, and then soon, his whole body. He drops him to the floor and makes to push him away, but Sandalphon is far more resilient and will likely never learn to properly obey orders. His arms wrap around Lucifer’s waist as he collapses again, easing his fall.

The weight of twelve wings and Lucifer’s already larger frame wear him down, making him lean backwards, further aggravating his own wounds. He almost doesn’t notice, not when his own hand runs along Lucifer’s side, feels the tender sensation of inflamed skin, the thick wetness of blood, where those wings met his back. It’s a touch light enough that Sandalphon himself just barely senses it on his finger tips, but it makes Lucifer jolt, leaning further against him until he could no longer support himself on his knees and fell back.

A choking noise escapes him just before he could restrain it, white-hot pain entering his vision as his injured back collided with the ground. He vaguely thinks that he likely underestimated the graveness of the wound, and how it could’ve been so much worse if he hadn’t had the habit of folding his wings away most of the time when he isn’t making use of them.

The dreadful thoughts don’t last long, soon overshadowed by sheer _emotion_ when a low voice, so soft, by his ear.

“Sandalphon…”

Has anything ever sounded sweeter than this?

Sweeter than hearing Lucifer’s voice, always so lovely, the loveliest, speaking his name. The voice that Sandalphon could hear only in his dreams, for what felt like centuries upon centuries since they last met.. Sandalphon knows in that moment, that all his dread had been pointless. If ever he could be as blindly hopeful and optimistic as Lyria, it’s in that moment.

If Lucifer’s eyes are a feral gold, he just has to ease them back to their gentle blue. If the burden of those mismatched wings are too much for him to bear, Sandalphon will shoulder it with him, hold his hand for as long as he needs him to. There is nothing worse to come out of this, than what he had once suffered.

“Sandalphon.”

He sounds clearer this time, and less exhausted. Although he feels his back burning, he moves, taking Lucifer’s face between his hands to remove it from his shoulder, the simple motion enough to make every nerve on his torso scream. But he needs to look him in the eyes. He misses them too much, with every moment now that he can’t see them in.    

They were shifting. Not settling one way, changing and still so lost. It hurts to look at them, to see the foundation of all his hopes shaken so, but he perseveres, smiles at him as much as he could.

“You’re back, Lucifer.”

There is a hand on his arm, soaked in red, gripping the limb in a recklessly tight hold. He can feel his skin bruising beneath it, and a wince twists his features. The hand slackens its grip, and a low grunt comes from above him as Lucifer pulls away from his touch, bracing his arms on the floor and pushing up his body. He crawls off of Sandalphon, and that was all that he could take, laying down on his side again. The wings shuddered, making to shift and move to wrap around their owner, but ultimately remained unmoving. Stubbornly, Lucifer keeps them down, and it’s no wonder how hard it is for him to do so, to restrain them even as he is. It shows in his face, the way his brows pull together, eyes tightly shut as he concentrated. And with admirable effort, he succeeds.

Sandalphon can only watch him.

It’s perhaps a little disconcerting, that they were both hurting so much, but all he could think about is how this is real. It feels like a dream, not quite a perfect one, as his fantasies always included Lucifer coming back to him in good health. But he’s _there_ , and he knows it. The very physical pain in his body keeps his mind from straying anywhere away from reality, but just to make sure of it more, he reaches out a hand, to touch him again and be certain. His palm only makes contact with Lucifer’s wrist for a moment before the other pulls his hand to his chest, groaning in irritation.

“Leave me be.”

No, it’s definitely reality. Dream Lucifer would never say such words to him when they’ve only just met again.

If he had the energy to laugh, he would’ve done so. As it is, he can only stupidly smile, not unaware of the prickly wetness at the corners of his eyes.

“Why?”

Silence is all the response he’s given, so boldly, he reaches again, having to shift a little closer to him this time. It makes him wince, and perhaps that’s why Lucifer allows the touch this time, although he still turns his head, hides his face in his other arm. No matter, because all he hides, they can speak about later.

Later, because they will have all the time in the world to talk.

He’s just barely awake when the crew finds them. The knowledge of his own swift departure being the cause of their delay is what keeps him from complaining. He thinks, though, that even if the fault wasn’t his own, he wouldn’t have to turned to look in their direction anyway. He keeps his eyes focused to his left, not to the doorway when he hears their steps. He wants to look at him longer, not because he fears that he might go away any moment--he’s too drunk on his happiness then to think of such worries yet--but it’s that _face,_ that particular face, that he wants to see longer before it’s taken away.

He’s never seen Lucifer’s face in his sleep before.

He looks at it now. Lucifer had turned his head while slumbering, revealing his visage again. It makes something bubble up inside him. He looks the same. Every bit as gentle as he always was, no less beautiful even with the dirt, the blood, the sweat on him. Sandalphon would never look so… so _bright_ , if he were the one looking so worn, with a monster’s bony wing-- or a handful of them--on his back. No one will. Only Lucifer.

“Only you…” Was his last whisper to him in that cellar. Lyria’s terrified cry drowns out anything else he might’ve said. With his body turned to face Lucifer, she had a full view of his ruined back. Sandalphon feels genuine guilt at scaring her, but it’s just so hard to look away…

In the end, he has little choice but to do so. Djeeta takes him by the arm, her doctor’s coat stained at the ends with the pool of blood he’s made. His regeneration out to have healed him some… is the excuse he carelessly provides at her deadpan stare, before he turns back towards Lucifer, alarmed as another crew member--a draph wearing an eyepatch--circles them to look him over.

“ _Don’t._ ”

More of them are looking at him now, and it makes Sandalphon want to release every bit of building aggression that he’d held back when speaking his warning. He’s about to pull away from Djeeta, about to hover Lucifer and hide him from their eyes, but his arm is caught in a firm grip.

“He hurt you.”

The words are every bit as resolute as her hold on him. He shakes with a fierce anger that he’s close to unleashing, especially when she continues.

“If he hurt you, he won’t have any reservations about hurting the rest of us.”

As expected, she’s merciless when it comes to protecting those she cares about. Sandalphon shares the sentiment, quite well in fact, and especially in that moment. But before his patience was entirely torn at the seams, the small hand he hadn’t noticed on his side twitches.

“I don’t think he will hurt anyone.” As always, Lyria’s gentle voice gathers everyone’s attentions to herself, commanding in mysterious ways, “I don’t think Sandalphon would let us get hurt, either.”

Tense silence stretches between them. Djeeta’s slanted eyes turn to study the other angel, mouth set in a hard line. Sandalphon’s fierce glare keeps a witch’s hand from touching those precious black feathers. She looks amused in response, silver hair swaying as she straightened again. With a cough, she taps her staff on the ground, a mild gesture of impatience.

“I cannot say what he is or how he will be… but at the present, does he not feel very calm, Lyria?”

The girl blinks, before her eyes descend to look at Lucifer. They _soften_ , and he finds himself ever grateful for her kindness.

“He does… he feels very peaceful. I mean, we’re all here, but he’s just sleeping without a twitch… Right, Djeeta?” She becomes more hesitant, as she turns to the captain.

“It _is_ a pretty deep sleep.” The comment comes from behind them. He recognises Gran’s steps before his voice, although he doesn’t care to turn around just to look at him.

“You took long.” Djeeta observes, finally looking away from Lucifer.

“Lots of monsters.” Comes the response, probably with a shrug, and Sandalphon nearly shakes from frustration and impatience until, “Well? What are we waiting for? Let’s go back. The floor looks like an uncomfortable bed.”

“Gran.”

“You know we have to.” Losing his casual tone, Gran speaks more assertively, “What happened earlier in the day, he’s probably connected to it. And also…” there a long pause before his next words, “It’s the least we owe him.”

Carrying Lucifer all the way to the airship is no easy task.

The argument comes to a stalemate and he refuses to meet Djeeta’s eyes again that night, one of the knights in their company supporting him as the wounds on his back began to heal. He keeps his attention on Lucifer. With twelve extra, large limbs in the way and no sign of him waking at any moment now to retract them, they have to struggle to bring him along, even with the superior builds of two draphs to help. It’s a rather awkward mess, would’ve been a comedic sight if only Sandalphon wasn’t feeling as tired as he does, simply desperate to see the other in some comfort. It’s a relief that this is an abandoned town, otherwise they would’ve surely been a spectacle.

He hears hushed conversation behind him on the way, and despite his best efforts at tuning it out, the words reach his ears anyway.

“You weren’t going to actually refuse, right?”

“ _Someone_ has to be cautious here, Gran.”

“But you know--”

“I know.”

“We have to protect them.”

“We will. However it has to be…”

“Even if…”

“Even if it comes down to it.”

* * *

 

 

 

 

>  
> 
> _vii. Sleeping Beauty_

 

Lucifer had remained asleep for longer than what Sandalphon is comfortable remembering, even two months after he awoke at last and the crew was finally relieved.

In Sandalphon’s room, the ethereal being had rested for many nights, the only indication of life in him the slow rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed even though he did not need to. During the longer nights of sitting on the floor by his bed and watching Lucifer, having arranged the wings properly to make a spot for himself, that was one of the more useless topics his mind had wandered off to thinking about. Why did the primal beasts have the reflex of breathing even though their bodies needed no oxygen to survive? And why was it that they still showed the same biological reactions to being deprived of air, even though they could do without it? Sandalphon had never had the head for such ponderings, and Lucifer, who did, never spoke to him about them. Maybe he’ll ask him, he’d thought. After he woke up, it could be one of the useless topics he brings up to fill the silence because he’s too afraid of asking about what really matters.

It went like that for days. Days of being mentally exhausted to the point of snapping because he couldn’t feel happiness without anxiety but was still hopeful and determined enough to refuse letting the stress eat away at his resolve.

Those days had been cut short by the return of the one person he’d least expected to find comfort in.

Now, that person is visiting him in his dreams again. For some reason.

“I told you to stop showing up.”

Lucio only smiles guiltily at him in return.

The surroundings look simple enough. It’s the ancient ruins of a temple on a very high mountain, overlooking a simple village where the people toiled on through life. Sandalphon turns away from him to stare down at the peaceful scenery, standing close to the edge.

“My apologies. I still have some things to look after, so I can only speak to you this way.” Lucio came to stand closer to him, his gaze moving from the back of Sandalphon’s head and then downwards, “Is he doing well?”

“Well enough.” He responds, a sigh leaving him. The chosen topic --what Lucio usually showed up to speak to him about-- puts him at ease, stops him from harshly demanding answers he knows the mysterious man will never give, not until he wants to.

“Is he still refusing to leave his room?”

“ _My_ room.” He cracks a half smile, “And he doesn’t refuse… he just won’t get out unless asked. But if someone asks him…”

“Just _anyone?_ ”

He twitches at the amused tone and turns to him, scowling as he replies, “Well, not _anyone,_ why would he just listen to every single person who comes across him? You just have to give him a good reason to do it, it’s not like he’s scared of going outside. Also, he’s just not used to be around so many people, especially people like that crew who can’t mind their own business, and also especially not in that form. He’s not used to it either.”

Obviously foregoing pointing out how lengthy the explanation was for such a simple question, Lucio’s tone drops to a more serious one, “Truly? Does he show any signs of discomfort or agitation?”

At that, Sandalphon hesitates.

The simple answer would be a “no”. Despite the physical pains he’s still getting in intervals, Lucifer is showing no signs of feeling burdened by his changed physique, and all that it brought.

Except… _that_ is not something Sandalphon quite understands.

Lucifer didn’t react. Not to fully seeing his new form for the first time in a mirror, not to the hostility he’d faced in the beginning or to the kindness he’d received after Lucio’s interference. He supposes that the former primarch _had_ been a bit cold in the beginning, closed off and rejecting contact, albeit subtly. Then as he settled in his newfound nest, he smiled and greeted Sandalphon just as he’d always had. His self-imposed confinement was not by any means a refusal to connect with the others; everyone, including Sandalphon himself, had assumed so, until they’d come upon the peaceful sight of him reading to the littlest crew members, fluidly and easily translating the words of a bedtime story from an ancient fairy tale. The children had taken to lay down in a row on either side of him on the bed, diagonally, and using his wings--the three pairs he leaves unfolded--as makeshift blankets.

It was a rather surreal sight, not the least because it had occurred not long after he awoke, when some of the adults still felt unease towards him.

From there, he’d dared to ask Lucifer to come outside with him, and received a plaint acceptance to his offer. He engaged in conversation from time to time, especially with the more intriguing crew members like the moondweller, but mostly preferred to sit with in the kitchen and wordlessly watch Sandalphon make coffee. If addressed, he’d simply smile and shrug a shoulder. If in the mood, he would pick at useless errors Sandalphon makes, then amusedly watch him huff and politely tell him off for being a distraction.

It’s about as peaceful as it could get.

Aside from the relapses, of course.

He feels it in that moment, the pull in his chest. An unease that made him restless.

He whirls around to face Lucio, “Let me wake up.”

Blue eyes blinked at him in confusion at the sudden demand, so Sandalphon continued, “Let me. He needs me.”

A very bold statement indeed.

“I was going to speak with you about the woman…” Lucio begins thoughtfully, and at once, Sandalphon stiffens.

The woman.

When Lucifer had been explaining his… return, to what amounted to an interrogation, he’d mentioned that he’d heard a woman’s voice-- a young girl’s, to be specific, when he’d first awoken as he is. As he is, with hardly any memories of the time he’d spent in the dimensional tear, not even of his confrontation with Sandalphon. That last part had cut him, but the hurt was overshadowed by dread and frustration when Lucio interjected, explaining that most of those who leave the realm as Lucifer had lose their sanity altogether, especially if they’d remained apart from the living realm for too long… words that were meant to salvage Sandalphon’s restlessness. Sandalphon had put aside the question of whether Lucio had ever _really_ comforted a person before, asking him about the woman instead.

Only now, after months, he’s receiving an answer.

“What about her?” he speaks stiffly, dread pooling inside him immediately.

“I’ve confirmed her identity. And you have nothing to worry about.”

“What do you mean I have nothing to worry about?” he demands, taking a threatening step forward, “She--”

“Yes, she’s dangerous. But only to those within the rift.” Although he sounds calm, there is a graveness to Lucio’s words as he continues, “It’s odd that she can even do what she did, but… more importantly, she evidently underestimated Lucifer’s wilpower. Now that he is here, she can no longer reach him. Or anyone else here.”

Sandalphon wishes he could be reassured, “I don’t get it. Why did she… do whatever it is that she pulled, if she just let him slip away like that?”

“Technically, _he_ forcefully escaped her, leading to the disaster that day… but in the end, it’s all she could do to place her bets on his destructive inclinations, or any that he may have. He is not her purpose, merely a possible means to an end.”

Sandalphon closes the distance in three steps, then feels the bitterness upon realising he still needs to crane his head back to stare Lucio down. Finding the physical attempt at intimidation unsatisfying, he makes sure to sound aggressive instead, “And what’s her purpose?”

A smile comes in reply, one that reached those familiar yet strange eyes, “That… can be a secret for now.”

He barely has time to call out his name before Lucio disappears.

His back aches as he slowly sits back from where he’d dozed off, sitting at the table in the kitchens. With a muttered curse, he rolls his shoulders to ease the stiffness in his body, irritation at once again being left at a cliffhanger clawing at his mind. Fortunately, the annoyance doesn’t last long. A turning sensation in his stomach makes him remember how and why he’d demanded to escape the dream himself, before Lucio brought up the woman, and he’s up to his feet and running down the halls without further thought on the man.

His breath catches in his throat from guilt, when he finally reaches the door to his room and throws it open, finding a sight… that’s not quite as horrid as his self-berating made him believe, but he still mutters several apologies as he hurries over to him.

Lucifer sat on his knees by the bed, bent over it at the waist. Twelve wings extended, having knocked over the bedside table and whatever else had been nearby. They flexed on his back and Sandalphon could hear his laboured breathing as he kept them under control, even as it made him ache. But at most a groan is all that leaves him, so it’s hardly as bad as it had been in the beginning.

He’s healing. Sandalphon repeats it to himself every time. He’s going to be okay.

He knows it, but his hands still shake just like every time before, when he carefully steps over the feathers to pull Lucifer’s hair away from his face, turning his head to look at him. Blue eyes momentarily flash gold, but remain bleary, and the tension on those broad, naked shoulders are released.

A sigh, before he whispers in relief, “Sandalphon.”

A warmth spreads in his chest, almost uncomfortable in its intensity.

The truth is, Sandalphon isn’t needed at all.

He can’t heal the ache in Lucifer’s body, try as he might. That body is fixing itself, regaining stability more and more every day. It’s not because of Sandalphon’s hand stroking those silver locks, or because he helps Lucifer to the bed then sits as Lucifer crosses his arms over his lap and rests his head on top of them with a sigh. When his hand settles on Lucifer’s spine beforehand, between the mess of plums, it’s Lucifer’s own strength that makes him finally retract the disfigured wings, and eventually, the rest of them too, so that his body may rest.

Silence lingered between them. He always let Lucifer have the first word at these times, mostly because he always fears that he may be irritating him with unnecessary conversation while he’s trying to rest. Lucifer’s attempt at dispelling that worry didn’t quite work when he told him about it, and he’d let it go eventually, content that Sandalphon really is just being considerate rather than stubborn.

Another moment of silence passes, before Lucifer begins.

“You came just in time, it was becoming irritating.”

He scoffs in amusement, hiding his disdainful thoughts, “I didn’t do anything.”

“You did, you always. How many times must I repeat myself?”

“You can just stop saying it.”

“Why am I not allowed to show my gratefulness to you?”

“Because I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re being quite obstinate tonight.”

Sandalphon shrugs a shoulder, turning his head to the side when Lucifer cranes his own to peer at him. It’s a piercing gaze despite the lingering haziness in his eyes, settling on him like a physical weight.

“Did he come to your dreams again?”

He nearly chokes.

Those nightly dream… were something he’d been supposed to keep a secret. How did Lucifer… but maybe he doesn’t…

“Who?”

“You don’t have to hide it. Rather, I have to wonder why you did in the first place.”

“I…” he feels embarrassed, like he’d been caught red-handed, even though, logically, he should be free to keep private conversations… private.

“I didn’t want to worry you.” he says helplessly in the end, sighing.

“So you were talking about me.”

“Yes.” he paused, then with a cough. “I’m sorry.”

“No need.” the concession comes rather easily, too easily, as Lucifer settles his head again, even chuckling, “I believe I’ve done my fair share of hiding important matters from you.”

Oh. _that_ he’d done indeed. With a huff, Sandalphon answers, “And you don’t want to know?”

“Ah, I do.” his voice seems to further soften then, “I also believe that it’s all well, if you’re the one keeping a secret.”

A strangled noise escapes Sandalphon, one that further makes him feel embarrassed. Clenching a hand on the sheets, he answers nervously, “Are you sure you should be trusting me this much?”

“Are you implying that I shouldn’t?”

“I just think you should be careful,” his core seems to be throbbing inside him. Not an uncommon thing to happen, he’s convinced it’s a natural response to his creator, but right now, it’s making him feel especially… It makes his skin tingle, and makes him want to curl into himself, “What if I use it against you?”

A quiet laugh makes Lucifer’s upper body shake in his lap, “Surprise me, then.”

Ah, this. This is what he cannot understand.

But perhaps it’s not a matter of understanding, but one of _believing_ , of learning to accept unwavering safety and comfort. When was it last that he could simply talk to him like this? When was it last that he could smile at him without the dread of separation looming over his head and closing off his throat? Had he ever done so at all? Had it ever been like this? _Will it keep being like this?_

Will Lucifer always be here, in this same room that should be Sandalphon’s, where Sandalphon knows he will find him in? Where he’d be greeted by him, always with a lovely smile that makes his eyes crinkle? Never leaving without him, always giving a promise of return to this very bed where they sit together, whenever he goes where Sandalphon won’t come with him, so that he may be assured--

Amidst the growing turmoil inside him, Sandalphon’s mind abruptly blanks as he goes as still as a board.

The hand he had not realised he’d placed at the back of Lucifer’s neck stopped in its motions, having been rubbing at the pale skin and playing with the ends of Lucifer’s hair as he’d sank deep into his thoughts. A low noise escaped Lucifer that may have sounded unsatisfied if only Sandalphon had been paying attention, but instead it nearly makes him jump.

“Sandalphon?” Lucifer questions, pushing himself up a bit to look at him, blinking at the wide-eyed expression the other wore. His voice snaps Sandalphon back to reality, and the archangel swallows, slowly turning to meet his eyes.

“Lucifer.” he starts, glad his voice didn’t crack, as he feared it would.

“Yes?” comes the patient reply, and seeing his apprehensive expression, Lucifer sits up, so he can face him properly. Curiously, he prompts him, “What is it?”

Sandalphon has to take a breath before asking. A part of him is screaming at him that he’s thinking far too highly of himself lately, that he’s overreacting to his own delusions, that he’s too high off the happiness of being with Lucifer again. The other part is calmer, and simply reminds him of nights months ago, when he’d grown too tired, strained by Lucifer’s comatose state and the uncertainties of the future, finally breaking down and _begging_ not to be left alone again. Of the dreams he would have those nights, cradled in a warm embrace, the sunlight above him hidden from sight as six wings folded around him protectively.

“Why don’t you leave the room more often?”

Lucifer tilts his head to a side. Takes a moment to thoughtfully study his expression, and then straightforwardly, without hesitation, replies, “Why? I thought you would like this arrangement.”

God help him, he might just die tonight.

_“Why do you have to say it like that?!”_

He feels righteous in his outburst. An agonized groan leaves him before he twists in the direction of the wall, dropping his face in his hands. His body temperature grows at a dangerously rapid pace, until he can only vaguely marvel at the fact that he hasn’t started to physically melt yet.

“How must I have said it then?” the vaguely amused voice comes, making him groan again, “Well, I suppose I could also say: ‘I want to see you easily and it’s better to have one of us in one place for that.’ Assuming that my assumption of your sharing of the sentiment is correct, I don’t see any problem.”

“ _Please_ , stop talking.”

“Didn’t I tell you before? Although I appeared to be entirely unconscious at the time, I was able to make out certain sounds around me. And I heard you--”

Sandalphon feels ready to start crying. Maybe he should leave. He probably should if he wants his body yo go back to its normal state. Yet he can’t will himself, even as the urge to let himself fade into particles grows ever stronger.

“Yes, _yes,_ you’ve told me that quite a few times now.” He really doesn’t need to be reminded of _that_ particular embarrassment right now, “Just--aren’t you tired? Just lay down and sleep already.”

“But we’re having a pleasant conversation.”

Oh, _you--!_

He stands up, stiff with firm resolution.

Avoiding Lucifer’s eyes, which no doubt are shining with that spark of amusement that always make him look too disarming, Sandalphon promptly shoves at him. Obviously taken off guard by the rough push, Lucifer’s body flops face-first into the mattress like an oversized rag doll. He immediately makes to sit up again, either to berate Sandalphon or jeer at him more, but whichever was his intention, Sandalphon doesn’t let him.

Pressing his hand to Lucifer’s back, he begins to sing.

His voice comes out cracked and broken at first. He nearly loses all his resolve right then, but with enormous willpower, he stubbornly continues until… until it doesn’t sound half-bad, and Lucifer’s quietness brings him back to his senses. He feels the tell tale signs of his blush returning, his voice wavering a little. He’s not sure where he’s heard this particular song, which is odd. Usually the melodies he memorizes leave enough of an impression that he would remember their place of origin. It has a good rhyme to it, however, would likely sound even better to the music of a harp, and it’s also… so painfully corny he feels his jaws aching from pronouncing the lyrics halfway through. He has to look away from Lucifer, previously having only avoided his curious gaze that had progressively grown warmer. By the time he reaches the last stanza, he no longer feels that gaze, and slowly trails off at the last note when he turns to him, only to find white lashes fanned over high cheekbones, a relaxed face of one who is sleeping peacefully and having delightful dreams.

Sandalphon dares to release a breath, to slowly lay down next to him, making himself as small as possible. The bed is definitely not big enough for the two of them to sleep in it together while keeping a respectable distance, and really, he may as well stop calling this his own room when Lucifer has made himself comfortable there and only accepts visitors. But it’s not like Sandalphon is intending to spend the night. Only… he’ll only stay long enough to make sure that Lucifer won’t wake up in pain, that he’s fully overcome his episode. Just like he does every time.

And just like every time, his breath starts to even as he watches Lucifer’s slumber, and slowly, his body relaxes, the warmth of the other’s bare skin not lost to him through the thin fabric of his clothes as their arms pressed together, as their hair touched and tangled.

Across the floor next to the bed, paper sheets lay scattered, words written across them in a _quite_ familiar handwriting if he were to look. On one of them, a sheet that looked more crumbled than the rest, was the lyrics of a painfully romantic song.

* * *

 

 

 

 

> _viii. Little Red Riding Hood_

 

The newest mission Sandalphon is brought along for comes in the form of a witch with oddly shaped eyes and a sharp smile. He looks far younger than he actually is, and naturally, the singularities and Lyria are charmed by his outward innocence, as well as fascinated with the request he makes.

Retrieve an ancient tome written by an astral, stolen by an influential noblewoman of the island they meet him in. Rumor has it that she keeps a primal beast hidden in her dungeons, a terrifying monster with a taste for human skulls.

He spends the better part of week they’re making preparations to raid her mansion in complaining to Gran, the other ones coming along, and to Lucifer. The last one listens to him most closely but seems to care the least, arguably a more offensive thing than not listening at all.

“The singularity isn’t listening. Why should we just blindly trust him? What if it’s a trap?” he says, _again,_ and Lucifer simply nods, _again_ , “Are _you_ listening?”

“Of course.” Lucifer smiles at him indulgently, leaning back in his seat, “It’s pleasant hearing you talk, even if you’re complaining about the same thing you did five minutes ago.”

Sandalphon has the grace to be embarrassed, but the urge to secretly pour salt in the coffee mug he’s about to take to the table for Lucifer is equally strong. Eying the salt shaker wistfully, he gives up on the action, aware that if nothing else, Lucifer will simply gulp down the atrocious beverage if only to be as much of a pain as Sandalphon can be. And try as he might to deny it, Sandalphon know his patience and threshold for nonsense will never, ever reach higher than his creator’s. He could give Lucifer salted coffee for the duration of the next month and the other would drink every single cup just to prove a point.

Well, if nothing else, in regards to stubbornness he _does_ take after him.

He complains one more time before they take off for the mission that night, and Lucifer returns his words with a simple brush of his fingers through Sandalphon’s hair, telling him to stay safe.

If Sandalphon stays far calmer than expected afterwards, no one comments about it.

The fortress of the noblewoman’s mansion is a formidable one, that he gives her. He senses a hostile presence around every corner, the path they’d found through which to reach inside hardly _safe_ despite being the best route, or so the scout had said. A part of Sandalphon is impatient enough that he nearly takes flight to go inside through a window, but he restrains the urge. The mortal guards he can easily take care of, but the presence of that primal beast, now a proven fact thanks to Lyria and himself, is troubling. The records of the astrals’ creations were classified information he’d never had access to, and now, centuries after the war, the majority of them were lost. But even if they existed, the possibility of this particular primal beast being a dangerous, unknown one would remain. There were undocumented creations, after all, even as far back as the time he’d still been in the facilities. He knows, he witnessed the execution of one such primal personally.

Discarding the gloomy thoughts, he concentrates on ensuring that presence does not move from where it is. Troublingly, the primal beast’s aura is spread out, chasing them as they made it closer to one of the hidden passages of the watchtower. From there, they would pass through an adjoining tunnel that leads to the main palace. And then…

“And then we’ll see where it goes.”

Sandalphon inhales through his nose, the urge to shove the singularity’s head right through a wall _very_ prevelant suddenly.

“I mean, we don’t actually know the countess’ side of the story, right? So we gotta keep an open mind.”

Sandalphon is about reply that no, he is absolutely not keeping an open mind, his general opinion of mortals tends to take a dive the moment he discovers they’ve been keeping a primal beast forcefully imprisoned. And the agitation in that presence tells him enough to know of that it is, in fact, confined against its will where it wishes not to be. But Vira answers first, a hum leaving him as he trudged along behind the archangel.

“I'm inclined to agree. Usually, the primal beasts who are far too distressed tend to release an uncomfortable miasma… yet I feel a gentleness in the air about us.”

Sandalphon’s steps come to a stop.

“You feel what?”

Vira raises her brow elegantly, “A gentleness?”

It dawns on him in that moment, far later than he, than _Lyria_ should’ve noticed.

The reason why they had been feeling the beast’s presence until now wasn’t because it was particularly large in size. It’s because they already stepped right into its trap.

And as though his thoughts had echoed out loud--they may have, for all he knows--the very scene before him abruptly warps into complete nothingness.

His first instinct is to try and catch Lyria, but his grip comes out empty. His mind is already in overdrive, running several different possibilities all at the same time. Was the earlier event an illusion? An elaborate set up to throw him a clue, mocking him for his blindness? If so, since when had it began? Or was this a displacement ability, the beast having separated them at that moment? But it has to have powerful sensory skills too, if it had so fast recognised Sandalphon’s realisation of its scheme without him even speaking it out loud.

Either way, he would find no answers just by standing still. Drawing out his sword, he inhales. There is pure blackness around him, and he can sense nothing. It’s as if he’s been transported to a makeshift void. Still, as powerful as this being may be, Sandalphon believes his own power to be stronger. He takes a step forward, ready to call upon all twelve wings.

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to. The moment his foot lands back on the ground, the blankness clears, revealing the exact same place he’s been in earlier. Except, now, he’s alone.

Frustration makes his brows furrow. He mutters a vehement curse under his breath, directed towards that godforsaken witch.

Even when he spreads his wings, he feels no echo of power in response. There isn’t even the aura of the primal beast in the place anymore. The damn thing is _definitely_ playing a game with him. Well, it ought to know Sandalphon has no interest in competitions unless he wins them, and since it has already forced one on him… it better be prepared for a payback.

Releasing a breath through his nose, he calms himself considerably. Keeping his sword clutched in his palm, he walks ahead. Avoids the passing guards and quietly knocks out the ones who do see him. At this rate, the whole mansion will know of the intruders, and he doesn’t even know where the rest of his companions are, let alone what the deal with the witch and the countess is. The thought threatens to make him lose his temper again, and he inhales once more.

Aside from the guards, there is no other obstacle in the way, and he soon makes it past the tunnel and, safely, into the main estate. With so much troubling ease, in fact, that it makes him scowl.

Just what is that thing trying to pull on him?

He continues on the path he’d memorised. According to the information they’d been provided, the countess would be in her private quarters at this time of the night. He stealthily passes the maids, and is nearly seen by a butler, but none of them are nearly as terrifying or watchful as the astrals had been, whose sharp gazes Sandalphon had spent a considerable amount of time learning how to avoid. With ease he slips away from them, making his way down a darkened hallway that leads to the secret passage to the nobleman’s chambers. It was silent, enough that he could’ve heard the sound of a needle dropping to the ground. It was therefore all the more startling to hear the sudden noise that came from a corridor to his left. It was a long, drawn out sigh, that was suddenly cut off at the end, as if the person had been silenced by force. It has Sandalphon freezing in his place for a long moment, straining his ears to check for any approaching steps. There are now, but he still holds his breath, hand reaching for the handle of his blade. He creeps closer, standing close to a wall, and peers around the corner to see what it was all about.

Naturally, he regrets it, curiosity killed the cat and all.

How shameless could they be?! Is a corridor out in the open a good place for love making? Could they not have found any empty room in this very large, very oddly designed fortress? Granted, this particular hallway should not be occupied by anyone, least of all an intruder, and maybe those two men are of particular importance, if their elegant, currently dishevelled outfits were of any indication. But that makes it worse. Were mortal nobles not so strict about the rules of etiquette? Gritting his teeth, he snaps his head away from the offending sight, feeling his stomach turn a bit. A romantic tryst in the shadows. Hah, a cliche novel plot. He never asked to stand witness to a real life edition to it though.

Seeing as the pair were so busy, Sandalphon carelessly spread his wings, masking his presence and fluttering towards the door to the opposite end of the hallway. The noises seemed to grow louder, as if meaning to chase his steps, and he could feel the heat of embarrassment crawling up his neck, making him pull at the tight collar of his inner top restlessly. He has to struggle not to slam the door behind himself, his last step past it almost shakey. Damn them all, really, because as much as he would like to deny it, _he_ is the unwelcome intruder, and he may have lingered there behind the corner longer than he should’ve, out of shock at the sight than anything. Trudging on, he couldn’t help but think back on the couple, but the more pressing matter of his comrades still missing, possibly imprisoned somewhere chase those inappropriate thoughts away, returning his mind back to its single-target determination of firstly confirming their safety and secondly, finding that witch and beating him within an inch of his life, tome found or not. He cares little about that part anymore. Most astral records are useless, their information encrypted in secret codes that were present only in their memories rather than on paper, and since this one most certainly does not belong to Lucilius, it’s hardly _that_ much of a threat even if the words could be made out. He’s said all of this and more by way of convincing Gran _not_ to bother with this request, and now, out of a desire to yell at him for not listening to him, if nothing else, he _will_ hurry, disarm this annoyance of a primal beast, and get out of this place.

All of those plans are, of course, thwarted and kicked straight out of the metaphorical window.

He’s the first thing that catches Sandalphon’s eye when he shoves the door to the countess’ private offices open. Of course he is, the eye naturally seeks out the one source of light when met with immediate darkness, which the rather plainly designed chamber is plunged in. no candles lit, the curtains drawn and blocking out what little is clear of the moonlight, hidden as it is behind rain clouds. It’s only the matter of shock that makes Sandalphon still, instinctive alarm having his hand grip his sword handle immediately. He holds his breath, then finds out that for a long moment, he couldn’t release it at all.

He’s never realised it before, how brightly Lucifer glows in the darkness. Even though his wings are so black, the silver shine is no less prominent, leaving shadows around him of the scarce objects nearby. Lucifer is sitting comfortably behind the spacious desk, leaning back in the velvet-covered seat with ease, and had Sandaphon been ignorant, he would’ve believed this room and this whole fortress were his by right. He’s so… so _nice_ , to look at. It’s not as if Sandalphon is biased, all the realm and its people know Lucifer is pleasing to the eye, and especially in this moment… in that place… he looks so…

“Good evening.”

The words nearly make him jump. His vision finally focuses, finding that Lucifer is staring at him. In fact, he’d been staring at him for a long time now. From the first moment he’d stepped into the room, as if expecting him, a gaze growing increasingly amused as his smile grew wider too.

He _has_ likely been waiting for him.

“You,” Sandalphon begins, in a slightly strangled tone, “You… what are you _doing_ ”?

“Waiting for you.” It’s a simple response as well as a deliberate disregard of what Sandalphon means, which the other no doubt knows. The primarch’s expression twitches into a scowl.

“You _know_ that’s now what I’m talking about.” He stalks forward, flicking his finger to light up nearby candle stands; Michael’s powers could really be convenient at such times, Lucifer no longer looks so blinding and hard to stare judgmentally at. He crosses his arms, tapping his foot, the image of frustrated, rightful impatience.

Lucifer is far more languid in contrast, tapping his pointer finger at the corner of the book in his lap. He glances between the pages and Sandalphon, with a glint in his eyes not different from the one in Djeeta’s when she’s playfully avoiding explaining an inappropriate joke to a curious Lyria.

"It’s fake.” He says at length, presumably after having had his fill of watching Sandalphon twitch and restrain himself.

“What’s fake?”

“The tome.” Lucifer lays the book in his hold on the desk with one hand, keeping it open on the page he’d been reading. He leans back again, resting his hands on the arms of the chair, though his gaze remains on the book with vague interest, “It’s a fake. A very well-made one, however. He’s sold the lady a good trick.”

A fake. Of course, it’s a bloody _fake_. And they were tricked, just as he’d thought.

“Sold her?” he asks distastefully, stepping closer to peer at the writings.

Lucifer hums, “In exchange for the primal beast. But she couldn’t meet her end of the bargain, and so…”

“He dragged us into it.”

“As distraction.”

"He went after the primal while she focused on us--”

“But was intercepted by the girl in blue, with the singularity on her back. Impressive, I didn’t think they’ll figure out the trick.”

“It tried to trick you too?”

Lucifer smiles at that, “Yes, _tried._ ”

Right, so he couldn’t escape it while Lyria and Gran did. Awfully amazing of the Supreme Primarch, the one _supposed_ to be Lucifer’s equal--

“Don’t make that face,” the other chuckles, looking at him, “You were not trapped like the rest.”

That catches Sandalphon’s attention, “Why not?” he asks, slightly insulted.

Lucifer’s smile seems to take an edge.

He runs his hands along the arms of the chair as he stands from it, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table on his way around it. Still looking very much amused, he meets Sandalphon’s eyes, which closely follow his movements, “We made a bit of a deal, let’s say.”

Which of course does not content the primarch. Stubbornly he stumps closer, “What deal?”

“He tried quite hard to figure me out, you see.” the candlelight reflected in Lucifer’s eyes, a faint glow, “So I gave him a leg to stand on. If he brings me the one I wish to see, he doesn’t have to face the one he’s avoiding again.”

Sandalphon’s lips part slightly, though no words escape. Lucifer’s smile widens, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. His voice is warm with affection when he finishes, “And he’s made an accurate guess. Quite fortunate, yes? Though I suppose, my heart is not so cold as to separate him from his mistress.”

Sandalphon feels weightless beneath that gaze, suddenly regretting having moved to stand so close to him. He looks away, trying to stay discreet as he focuses his eyes back on the tome. He wants to say something, in response to the sentiment so sweetly given, but the words stick in his throat, neither fiercely embarrassed denials to match his furious blush, nor shyly spoken reciprocations leaving him. In the end, what he manages is a croaked question, “M-mistress?”

If Lucifer is disappointed at his lack of an appropriate reaction, he doesn’t show it, instead tilting his head and dutifully replying, “Yes, well, I _did_ say that she could not meet her end of the bargain. I wonder if it’s a common thing, between our kind, to grow an iron will once we are intelligent enough to make choices for themselves.”

“He… _wanted_ to stay?”

“Said as much, when the girl in blue offered to help him make his escape. The witch just is not as alluring as his lady, he says. Apparently, he was bored enough that he didn’t bother with a proper goodbye.”

“So then, all of this…” his jaw clenches, embarrassment momentarily chased away by irritation, “is because of his obsession with the countess?”

“Yes, it seems like his willful actions in regards to his object of affection created a rather wide slew of problems for uninvolved people.”

“Shut _up._ ” he scoffs and shoves at Lucifer’s shoulder, which shook with his laughter. Resolutely, he steps around the other, walking towards the windows for no reason other than escaping that too small space between them, “So the rest are okay?”

“Healthy enough. She was happy to let the rest out of the dungeons, after they brought down the little trickster.”

“So why are _you_ still here?” He says with a long sigh, suddenly feeling quite exhausted. He hadn’t spent any physical effort, yes, but just knowing how much time he’d wasted on _nothing_ while Lucifer had just sat here, having had most of the problem resolved, fills him with a considerable level of bitterness, “You already knew what was going on… and since you talked to the primal before us, you came here first. Why couldn’t you just come out and tell us instead of landing us in this skirmish? You could’ve put down that witch too.”

His tone grew progressively more accusatory, but he couldn’t help it. He tugs the curtain open, just enough to peek outside. As he’d thought, little drops of rain were beginning to fall, light at the moment, but it will grow heavier in time. Behind him, he could hear Lucifer moving closer, standing just behind him to stare outside as well. He’s too close again, but it doesn’t make him jump this time. He sighs and leans his forehead on the cool glass, asking again, “Well?”

A hum comes in response. Lucifer stays silent longer, and it leaves him wondering if he’s hiding something more. Had something happened, that he is not telling him? He doubts any serious harm could’ve come with Lucifer there, watching over the whole thing like it’s entertainment, still the concern pulls at him and he turns, back against the window behind him to avoid being pressed against the other. He looks up at him, brow furrowed, “Lucifer?”

Blue eyes slowly slide downwards to meet his, and were he not so squeezed in that space, Sandslphon might’ve jumped. They were so very close indeed, and although it were not an uncommon thing anymore, it feels… different now, where they stood in the darkness of the room, faint candlelight painting shadows across their faces. And if Lucifer had once pretended not to notice any part of his awkwardness, he certainly doesn’t seem to have any such reservations now. His hand comes up, taking hold of his chin, making him lift his head when he didn’t even realise he’d dropped it. Sandalphon stares up at him, feels a tingle on his skin where cold metal armour is. At a loss of what to do, he calls his name again. Lucifer. Lucifer. _Lucifer_. The third time, his creator smiles, eyelids falling shut. Wordlessly, he leans his head down, resting his temple atop Sandalphon’s.

“It feels different, hearing you call my name here.”

It’s all he can do to keep himself from trembling. Sandalphon clenches and unclenches his hands, finally daring to lift one and touch the other’s wrist with it.

“Because we’re not supposed to be here?”

His awkwardly spoken words inspire a chortle from Lucifer, who twists his hand until he can hook his pinkie around Sandalphon’s, “Possibly, I suppose. Perhaps it _is_ the danger… or the solitude. I quite like that part too.”

This time, it’s Sandalphon who laughs a little, though his sounds more nervous than anything, “You speak as if you’re the Granscypher’s number one social butterfly.” He stops for a moment, his throat growing tighter around his next words, “... Are you sure you don’t just dislike _that_ place?”

It’s not a topic he’s ever meant to breach. So peaceful were their days now, so ripe with simple joy, that he dare not bring up any such heavy subject, even as they kept him up at night. But it’s there, a doubt lingering in the back of his mind. That Lucifer had lied. It would be a well-constructed lie indeed, because it could pass off as a half-truth while still being so terribly deceptive. And it would be a suitable disguise too. Too many times he’d thought of this, and then reminded himself of the times when Lucifer _doesn’t_ mind leaving his room, doesn’t refuse interaction even while in his self-imposed confinement. Now, the doubts were out, and he could only wait for Lucifer to be either truthful or--

“I don’t. Why would I?”

Or just lie again.

Sandalphon promptly pulls his head away, scowling up at him, “Why do you keep saying that? Even though you always shut yourself away.”

Lucifer regards him carefully before speaking, “Well… it _would_ be a lie to say I’m not slightly overwhelmed. But it’s not out of distaste for the place itself.”

“You keep saying that, but--”

“Sandalphon.” The tone is suddenly stern, and it’s enough to make Sandalphon trail off without effort. Seeing him hesitate, Lucifer’s expression and voice soften again, “You asked me a question, but I can’t help but feel like you’ve already decided on the answer yourself.”

And he can’t deny that. Try as he might, or rather, it’s _because_ he’s trying, he realises his own mistake. His stubborn, one-track minded thinking. But he’s burdened all the same.

“I’m sorry,” He owes him that, yes, though he has to glare to a side when he speaks it, “But I’m not wrong. I mean, I…” it’s a bit hard to explain. His feelings… they always feel so hard to explain. But he can try, he will, “I feel this way for a reason.”

“No doubt.” It’s the easy admittance that makes the tension in his shoulders ease a little, but instead, his chest is what feels heavy now. A sigh ghosts against his forehead, Lucifer lifting his head to stare outside. His next words are a little more unexpected, “Sandalphon, do you know how old I am?”

He’s not sure what this has to do with the conversation, and though he’s tempted to tell him to not try changing the topic, he can hear it in Lucifer’s voice, that he’s not playing around.

“Somewhere around three thousand?”

“Close enough.” Lucifer smiles a little again, looking down at him, “By mortal standards, I ought to be relaxing in a beach house, away from all the chaos the youngsters cause.”

“... You’re no mortal.” Sandalphon doesn’t even know why he has to say that, frowning up at him. The point has dawned on him, yes, but not the logic behind it.

“No,” There is a hint of melancholy, so slight, but Sandalphon is nothing if not hyper aware of every little point of unrest in his creator, “But I do feel old sometimes.”

To that, he can only grow defensive, “That’s nonsense. Primal beasts have no concept of aging.”

“Then perhaps I’m a bit special, hm?”

It’s not an uncommon term, not in association with Lucifer. Lucifer has always been special. Always set apart from the rest. Always one step higher. Always hated being so. So easily he speaks of such thing negatively, so unlike how others describe him. Lucifer, who is stronger, faster, kinder, better than anyone. Lucifer who never wanted to be different. Lucifer who will always be that way.

Sandalphon suddenly feels very, very lonely.

He doesn’t know whether it’s his own feeling of desolation, or Lucifer’s, that pushes him forward, breaks apart his inhibitions for the remainder of the night. He throws his arms around Lucifer’s neck, buries his face in his shoulder and feels just slightly less suffocated with emotion when he feels his bare skin against his cheek, so warm with life, thrumming with it. He clings to him tightly, too tightly, but Lucifer speaks no words of protest, only holds him back just as close. His hand settles on the back of his head, playing with the brown curls there, a hum escaping him in response to Sandalphon’s shuddering sigh.

The silence lasts long until Sandalphon feels brave enough to speak, knows he’s holding himself together well enough.

“Just sometimes, then?”

It’s all he can manage, and all Lucifer seems to wish to hear from him, because when he tilts his head back to look at him, he’s smiling and it’s genuine and reaches his eyes.

“Just sometimes.”

Sandalphon nods pensively, then settles his head back on his shoulder. He keeps face pressed there, his next words slightly muffled, “I want you to be happy.”

“I am. As long as you’re here, I will be.”

“... Promise?”

“On my life.”

“ _Don’t._ ”

Lucifer only laughs.

Sandalphon pulls his head back, more than a little unsettled, and shows it as such, “You still didn’t answer my question. Why were you waiting? And don’t give me half baked excuses this time.”

“Why?” Lucifer tilts his head, his brows raised in what he can only read as pretentious confusion, “I _did_ answer you. Earlier. When you first walked in.”

“What?”

“Well, I said--”

“I _know_ what you said,” Sandalphon cut him off. For the love of all that’s holy-- “ _Why_ would you wait for me here? You could’ve just ended this and gone back to…” he slowly trails off, a realisation dawning on him very, very slowly.

Lucifer seems to read it in his expression, and appears quite amused with it. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together once more, “Yes. I’m listening.”

Sandalphon’s cheeks flushed, his hand pushing against Lucifer’s chest but not _really_ shoving him away, “... I don’t understand you.”

“I believe I’m being fairly easy to understand.” Lucifer’s fingers curled around his fully now, “It’s a little awkward even for me, to say it out loud. Is it so hard to believe I can be this selfish? Or should I say… Oh, why wouldn’t I? Since we’re on the topic.”

Sandalphon feels like he’s not going to like this, “Topic of what?”

“Of life.”

He doesn’t, after all, and steps around Lucifer immediately, going back to that same table with his its damn mahogany shade and the book that was the beginning of all of this. He places his hands on its surface, leans against it a bit, and stays still when he hears Lucifer approach him from behind.

“Of age.”

“Enough.”

Lucifer’s hands cover his own on the table, his mouth near his ear. A whisper.

“Of death.”

Sandalphon feels his breath hitch, not merely for one reason, not for a dozen. It’s far too complicated of a feeling, caged as he is there, hearing that word in that voice, with the familiar warmth surrounding him.

“We never talked about that.” It’s a struggle, to keep his voice steady.

“We may as well.” Lucifer sounds thoughtful by contrast, his head now leaning against Sandalphon’s own, “Don’t you want to know?”

“I’ve known it _enough_!” He didn’t mean to snap, to shut his eyes tightly and hang his head. He doesn’t want to know. He never wants to discuss this with Lucifer. But the other remains incessant, waits just long enough to hear Sandalphon’s deep inhale, an attempt at calming himself, before he speaks again, lower.

“It’s not so hard. Rather, many things have come to be far more simple, when you know how easily even the greater parts of life can be swept away.”

Sandalphon laughs mirthlessly, “Like being insensitive?”

"Insensitive,” there no denial, not a full one anyway, “To topics that need no sensitivity.”

“This doesn’t need it?”

“No.” A hand grips his chin then, turning his head to the side forcefully even when he struggles. His eyes meet Lucifer’s, and it’s as hard as steel, the look in them. It makes him stiffen, “Because I’m here. So no.”

If Sandalphon had the mind for it, he would’ve been angered at how easily Lucifer’s words seem to eat away at his resolve, his rightful protesting. But he can feel nothing but foolish helplessness then, a tug at his very core that makes him want to be very weak indeed. He falls back against Lucifer, sighing deeply.

“It’s not so easy for me. Do you know how much I…”

“I know.” Lucifer puts his cheek against his forehead, “But it only makes it harder on both us. That you think I am still suffering, still weighed… Oh, I do have my days, but I would also say that I have never been more free than I am now. There is no more liberty to be had than once being freed from the chains of life itself.”

“You keep speaking that way and I’m going to start thinking you wanted to stay dead.”

“It wasn’t such a terrible place,” Sandalphon shoves him away with a hiss at that, and though Lucifer lets himself be pushed, he doesn’t fall too far back, still very much close, “It was only the loneliness… no,” he sighs, and looks at him with a smile, “You not being there that made it unbearable.”

Sandalphon feels his core shake at those words, but refuses to look back at him, “Could’ve fooled me. You seem so very willing to go back there, instead of being here where I am.”

“I _would_ go back…” he waits to see Sandalphon turn, a gasp leaving him before continuing, “If you were to come with me. It wasn’t awful. Sometimes… it would’ve been all I wanted.”

Sandalphon remembers it vaguely, a promise he’s made to himself to discuss everything, to _talk_ about it from here on. He’s mildly regretting that promise.

“... You really want to go back there?”

“Just sometimes.” Lucifer repeats his words of earlier, closing his eyes for a moment, then opens them, a glint in their blue that’s as captivating as it is unsettling, “Just when I feel desperate enough. Consumed enough.”

Sandalphon has an inkling of what he’s talking about. He’s not sure whether it’s simple masochism, foolishness, or too much bravery that makes him speak, “By what?”

And Lucifer smiles at him, the same way he did when Sandalphon was but a fledgling, asking about his duty, about the world. _Why do you ask?_ It says, _don’t you know it’s a harsh answer. Aren’t you afraid?_

No, he hasn’t. He’s never been afraid.

Not back then, and not now when Lucifer slowly walks closer to him, closing the distance between them in a time that was enough for Sandalphon to escape if he tried hard enough. An open offer, for him to run while he still can. And obstinate as he’d always been, so bloody unwilling to listen to anyone but his own heart, Sandalphon stayed still and met his eyes, almost with a challenge. His core is pulsing, a pounding sound that makes his ears ring, but he’s deaf to it when he hears Lucifer speak again.

“I told you, that so many things become meaningless, so many things fade in importance. Let me give you another example.”

His hands grab Sandalphon by the arms, a grip so tight at first, his arms would certainly bruise in that short moment.

“Propriety.”

Sandalphon sees stars when he’s slammed across the desk surface, but as soon as his vision settles, he once more feels dizzy. Lucifer is too close, and he’s everywhere. His hands and lips, they’re touching him, and he’s so confused and so lost he can only think of one stupidly spoken sentence.

“Not here.”

Lips pause where they’d been tugging at his ear.

“I don’t want to… here.”

There is a long beat of silence. Then, Lucifer laughs.

He doesn’t laugh in his usual manner, a silk-soft sound that is more a caress upon the listner’s skin than a booming noise that it out to be. He _laughs_ , loud and unrestrained. Stands straight and falls a few steps back. Sandalphon sits up slowly, too disoriented to say a word, and just watches him as he stands, laughter eventually calming into mirthful chuckles.

"After all my efforts..." 

He looks at Sandalphon then, his blue twinkling, and Sandalphon feels it before the action takes place. His creator turns, and he’s off the desk and up on his feet at the exact same second Lucifer throws the window open and leaps out of it, wings spread proudly.

And Sandalphon chases him. He’s done so for a while now.

They make the cat and mouse chase quite lengthy, but worth it. Well, Lucifer does. Sandalphon rarely has the chance to see him fly from behind a distance, and he’s half distracted by the sight. He looks elegant, and as mad as the chase grows, his posture never loses that quality. Sandalphon has little time to think long upon such thoughts though, so he pushes his starstruck marvelling to the back of his head, and focuses on the chase. They pass over most of the island from a considerable altitude, and as they reach the borders, Lucifer takes a sharp plummet downwards. By then, the rain had stopped, but they were both drenched, most likely. Sandalphon feels it, his clothes growing heavier on him as he spreads his wings as far as they could go--he refuses to unfold another pair, seeing as Lucifer only has one spread too--and goes down after him.

In the end, he doesn’t actually catch him. Lucifer lands, and when Sandalphon makes a grab at his wrist, he turns around too fast for it to have been Sandalphon’s pull on him that made him move.

But when they face each other… under that tree in the meadow, oh…

_He looks so happy._

It’s plain happiness. Passion. Joy. _Life._ It’s in every part of him. His blue eyes that light up, brighter than the sunny sky. His chest, slightly heaving from the chase. His smile, spread wide and true, a gift to Sandalphon for his efforts. Sandalphon thinks of that lock of silver hair that catches between his full lips, the way the bare, damp skin of his shoulders glisten. He takes one step forward and that’s enough, they’re already pressed flush against each other, Lucifer’s fingers a tight grip in his hair that only makes him cling to him harder.

“My little bird is reckless,” Lucifer whispers harshly against his ear as he’s bringing him down to the ground, pressing him into the wet grass urgently, “He chases after danger instead of running, like he should.”

And there, beneath him, Sandalphon sees a golden gaze, not nearly in a state of control. He stares into them, and he’s probably mad too, bringing it closer, fisting a hand in Lucifer’s hair and pulling, making sure neither will escape this time.

“Your little bird will never run.”

They stop thinking after that, and they simply live.

 

**Author's Note:**

> im gonna regret blindly posting this but life is too short to cry for longer than a week over this piece sucking. heres some bad news: im prob writing a sequel.


End file.
